have been better for Thorkel and Asgerda if they had never made up their difference-quien sabe?-at all events in this huggermugger, untruthful fashion. The Swiss-or some of the Swiss-used, when a married couple wanted to part, to make them live together in the same room for a week, with only one plate, one mug, and one everything. It is said that after this the couple never wanted to separate. But where are the statistics? I take my stand on human nature, and I say that one of two things must invariably have happened under this infernal discipline. Either the couple must have been found weltering in each other's gore after forty-eight hours; or if they endured to the end, they must both have been reduced to such a state of imbecility that they couldn't ask for anything and required to be fed with a spoon for the rest of their lives. Now it is not likely that a man and woman who could not feed themselves would want to part, or to do anything at all off their own bats. It is a very confusing world, especially in History. A fellow will tell you it was freedom of divorce that overthrew the Roman Empire, and then he will go and tell you that the Northern tribes who beat the Romans, and among whom you see a woman could send her husband packing because he just once objected to her getting into bed, were remarkable for the purity of their lives. I have long been of opinion that History leaves out all the important parts, and that Bed is at the bottom of it, or at least, sleep. As Mr. Tennyson's miller says, Something flows to us in life, but more is taken quite away exactly, it goes off in the night. I am confirmed in this view of History by (among other things) the experience of travellers, that if you do not write up your diary before going to bed, you are sure to leave out the most important parts of what you saw and did. The fact is, somebody or other ought always to sit up. Above all, people ought not to sleep together so much. It must be stupefying. I have seen a row of love-birds in a cage snuggling up to each other so close that another love-bird, who couldn't squeeze himself in, could walk along the backs of the whole row -and I certainly thought the friendliness of the arrangement was lost in its air of stupefaction. It has been affirmed, and with considerable plausibility, that sleeping alone is, on the whole, favourable to health, longevity, cleanness of skin, and personal beauty in general. That we ought all sometimes to sleep by ourselves is certain. Among the better classes, travel, visiting, and large roomy houses make many things come natural and easy, which to the poor are impossible; but even among the bourgeoisie the current feelings in such matters have all the force of mischievous superstitions. It may even be affirmed that any deviation from the routine, the "proper" thing, what everybody does, is positively dangerous. It is next to impossible to get the average woman to understand that, after the first month or two, she should not have 66 her baby in bed with her; if people who are accustomed to sleep together, do, for reasons of their own, or from some sweet, divine instinct of loving seclusion,-some "communication of the Deity," as Mr. Emerson puts it,-sleep apart for a time, they may take it for granted the whole neighbourhood knows it; and if anything should happen," woe be to them for not doing "what everybody does," even in a matter like that, which so obviously concerns only the two human beings who are guilty of "doing something different, you know." Mary Jane, the maid, will tell her friend Susan, the butcher's maid; ten to one the policeman on the beat knows; and ten million to one that, if either of the pair should die rather suddenly, the survivor will be suspected of having poisoned the deceased party to the bargain. But let us turn from these misères and refresh our minds with a picture of a maiden's chamber : "Phoebe Pyncheon slept, on the night of her arrival, in a chamber that looked down on the garden of the old house. It fronted towards the east, so that at a very seasonable hour a glow of crimson light came flooding through the window, and bathed the dingy ceiling and paperhangings in its own hue. There were curtains to Phoebe's bed; a dark, antique canopy and ponderous festoons, of a stuff which had been rich, and even magnificent, in its time, but which now brooded over the girl like a cloud, making a night in that one corner, while elsewhere it was beginning to be day. The morning light, however, soon stole into the aperture at the foot of the bed, betwixt those faded curtains. Finding the new guest there, with a bloom on her cheeks like the morning's own, and a gentle stir of departing slumber in her limbs, as when an early breeze moves the foliage, the dawn kissed her brow. It was the caress which a dewy maiden-such as the Dawn is, immortally-gives to her sleeping sister, partly from the impulse of irresistible fondness, and partly as a pretty hint that it is time now to unclose her eyes "The bedchamber no doubt was a chamber of very great and varied experience, as a scene of human life: the joy of bridal nights had throbbed itself away here; new immortals had first drawn earthly breath here, and here old people had died. But whether it were the white roses, or whatever the subtle influence might be, a person of delicate instinct would have known, at once, that it was now a maiden's bedchamber, and had been purified of all former evil and sorrow by her sweet breath and happy thoughts. Her dreams of the past night, being such cheerful ones, had exorcised the gloom, and now haunted the chamber in its stead." The man who painted this lovely picture, said, what the world in the present age wanted was to turn on its pillow and have a good If the pillow is a sofa-pillow, well and good; but the World in nap. Bed is not an image that I can relish—indeed I never was able to take to Milton's sun, who "pillowed his chin upon an orient wave." The pillow is incongruous. Was it a flock pillow, or a down pillow, or a horse-hair pillow such as I sleep on? And there you go again— why will people have feather-beds? the hardest mattress that you can bear, the lightest clothes that are warm enough, and a pillow that you cannot snuggle into, are things which seem natural—and yet it is only here and there an old soldier that takes to them. My notion of perfect Bed would be to go to sleep swimming, or rocked on the top of a tree-that would unite perfect elasticity with the perfect independence of the body. But in a feather-bed, you feel as if you were going to become part of the apparatus, and to quote the great American pantheist again, though in a very different connection— you lose your individuality in "a mush of concession." Especially is this the case if you sleep in the dark-which, however, I repeat, is a barbarous thing to do. Blowing out the candle must be a very dreadful deed; I mean, unless you burn a night-lamp of some kind. It is voluntarily parting with so much! What becomes of that clear sense of the relativity of things in general that we all have in the light? In the dark, too, you may be anybody. At least I always feel a change come over me if by any accident I am left in darkness. I feel at once like the little old woman that had her petticoats cut by the pedlar, whose name was Stout: "Lawks-a-massy upon me, this can't be I?" True, you may say that when once you are asleep, the relativity of things is of no consequence. But I am not so sure of that. I firmly believe those who have the most stupid and unnatural dreams are those who sleep in the dark. I say nothing of the horror of waking in the dark and hearing a noise, perhaps a subdued screech, and not knowing whether it comes from " fairies' nips," as the poet says (only you won't let me finish the verse, and give you his innocent rhyme to "nips"), or from "a most horrid and barbarous murder," as the street patterer says. But to wake in the dark and have lost the true sense of place, to have forgotten where the window is, and to be unable to tell on the spur of the moment whether your head lies east, west, north, or south, is quite bad enough, without pushing matters any further. Then you can never have really good conversation in the dark. In the dusk, in the dim religious light, you may; but, believe me, an element of brutality creeps in if once you blow out the candle. You feel as if you were a different person, with no more conscience than a Board of Directors, and you have bad thoughts directly without being ashamed of them. "Lights, lights, I say!" but don't have to strike them in the dead waste and middle of the night, as he had to-I mean Desdemona's father. Besides, without a light in the room you cannot see your companion's face, if you have a companion, and when you wake you feel it may perhaps be a changeling of some sort. I have had this feeling so strong that upon finding myself accidentally in the dark, I have jumped up in horror and struck a light. Am I myself? Is that you? Horrible questions! Who, to save the cost of a night-light, would sleep in the dark? Illi robur, et as triplex circa pectus erat, qui primus blew out the candle. Mind you never do it. And I entreat you, do not wear night-caps-I mean, do not wear a night cap, but I believe some fellows have gone so far as to wear two. My brother! nightcaps are one of the most potent causes of human suffering. It is all very well, as they said in the middle ages, to have "an hole that the vapoure may goe oute at ye toppe," but not even "an hole" can prevent the lowering, degrading, obfuscating influence of the nightcap. I once knew a man who wore nightcaps. He was a good citizen and a sharp man of business. One night his premises took fire. He had wife, children, money, plate, clothes, furniture, family heirlooms, under those burning rafters. Yet what did that man do? He walked forth in his night-shirt, to a friend of mine, beseeching him, with tears in his eyes, to take care of his nightcap. The constant wearing of a nightcap had the effect of making him an imbecile when once he had gone to bed. Turn it over in your minds, and if you wish the human race to improve, then join me, heart and soul, in denouncing nightcaps. Very likely this man had been a Blue-coat Boy-mind, I do not vouch for the fact— but if he had, consider the absurdity of having gone about as he did all day when a boy, and then putting on a cap at night under shelter. There is another most important consideration. It has been said that your deadliest enemy will pause, dagger in hand, if he finds you in peaceful slumber. But I say, not if he finds you with a nightcap on. It would only whet his rage, if he was a man of taste. Is it, indeed, a law of nature that Revenge hesitates to slay the sleeper? Then do not baulk nature of a merciful intent by interposing a night-cap. MATTHEW BROWNE. THE RING-FINGER. MERRILY, merrily, church-bells ring, (Ever young hearts smile cheerily,) The mass is said, and the maid is wed, And in the great hall is the bride-feast spread. (And ever old hearts sigh wearily.) Earl Hugo is lord of ten castles strong, Outspake the father of Maud the bride, "Set ye the gates of my castle wide, (Ever young hearts smile cheerily,) Be he peasant churl or a belted earl, Each comer shall feast him with Maud my girl." (And ever old hearts sigh wearily.) In strode a knight in his armour black, (Ever young hearts smile cheerily,) He hath gone apace to the high hall dais, Where Earl Hugo sits in the bridegroom's place. (And ever old hearts sigh wearily.) Lady Maud looked on the stranger knight, And her eyes grew dim, and her lips grew white; (Ever young hearts smile cheerily ;) He spake no word to her at the board, But turned him unto her new-wed lord. (And ever old hearts sigh wearily.) "I greet thee, Earl Hugo, in all thy pride, She is sweet and free for an earl like thee, (And ever old hearts sigh wearily.) |